“Don’t be angry with me.”
But he was angry, terribly angry; with himself or fate, rather than with her. He did not speak harshly or unkindly to her herself, but he addressed the woodwork, the skylight, and all inanimate things with dreadful severity. He waved his arms, he pulled at his hair; never had she seen him so agitated, so perturbed.
“Tony dear, what does it matter?”
He said that her presence there had put him in a hideously false position. He said that he must not of course blame her; what she had done was noble, heroic, angelic; only he ought to have warned her of the disastrous effect of such an act. “Emmie, you reckless self-sacrificing saint, you really have carted me. You’ve made me break my solemn promise. In all my life I’ve never gone back on my word. My old father foresaw, he feared—and I gave him my word of honour that I wouldn’t take you out of England.”
Poor Miss Verinder said forlornly, “You must tell your father the fault is mine. It is I who have run away with you, not you with me.”
But Dyke then said they must stop the ship and land her as soon as possible. He would go and consult with Captain Cairns. Miss Verinder said no, she begged him not to think of doing that; she would go with him to their port of destination and then quietly return to England. Deprecatingly she explained that she had not planned this treacherous act, she had never meant to do anything at all on her own initiative or without his explicit approval; but the accelerated departure, that hasty good-bye, the bundling her into a cab and disappearing, had been too much for her. Then the thought had come of the mate’s boat lying there waiting—and then “Tony, I had to do it. I couldn’t, I couldn’t help it.” And she concluded with urgent entreaties that Mr. O’Donnell, the second mate, should not be made to suffer for her imprudence. Mr. O’Donnell, she said, had at first strongly objected to bring her off, but she had not been quite truthful to Mr. O’Donnell. She had “over-persuaded” Mr. O’Donnell. After that he had been kindness itself; lending her one of the men’s coats, helping her out of the boat, troubling about her luggage.
“Tony!” and she stretched out her hand.
She was deadly pale, trembling a little, and her dark hair hung down loosely about her pleading eyes. Dyke stooped over her and kissed her cold forehead.
“Emmie!”
Reynolds came in with a tray of plates, and was followed by heavy waves of that odour of fried steak and onions; he fixed the tray to the table in some ingenious manner, and every time the Mercedaria softly heaved the plates made a musical clatter. Those invisible chains rumbled behind Miss Verinder’s head, and before her eyes two scuttles with brass bolts slowly sank a few feet and as slowly rose. She shivered, but went on talking; her gentle voice a little shaky, but very sweet still.